


Armageddon Actually

by muzakchan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (like a character will take their shirt and pants off but that's probably where it'll end), F/M, Fluff, Gen, Good Omens Rom Com Event, Humor, Inspired by Love Actually, Light Angst, Love Actually AU, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Original Character(s), Romance, Smut, Swearing, Teen Romance, There's a lot of swearing, heaven and hell team up, one year after the apocalypse, to flush out the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muzakchan/pseuds/muzakchan
Summary: Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the departures gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion’s starting to make out that everything’s getting a little bit better, but I don’t see that - it seems to me that Armageddon is everywhere. Often, it’s not particularly noticeable or newsworthy, but it’s always there - fathers and mothers (and their respective lovers), sons and daughters, businessmen in sweatshop-made suits off to negotiate another war. When Armageddon was subverted, everyone in Heaven and Hell lost a lot of morale, but I think we only delayed the inevitable - or, the ineffable, if you will. If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaking feeling you’ll find that Armageddon actually is all around.Part of the Good Omens Rom Com event!
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Lesley | International Express Man/Maud, Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	Armageddon Actually

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this retelling of Love Actually, set in the Good Omens world :)   
> Thank you so much to my betas miss-minnelli and saygeronimo <3

**1636**

> _I feel thine Feeling inne mine body, fingers to toes_
> 
> _Love, stronge and True, hath surround’d me, and the Feeling groweth_
> 
> _The Winde speakes thine Fayte to me acrost the centuries_
> 
> _Thou shalle haveth thrice fortnights to thwart -_

“What’s _thwart_ mean?” the small child next to Agnes’s elbow asked in a voice too loud for their close proximity. 

She hadn’t heard him enter her cottage, and, even though she’d _known_ he’d sneak in, he still took her by surprise. This whole “seeing the future” business was still new to her. 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” she swore, jumping back from the child. “Adultery, thou hast frightened me!” 

The young boy’s brow furrowed and he looked at her seriously, far more seriously than a boy of 11 should have been able to. “Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain, Miss Nutter, for He is always listening.” He crossed himself to emphasize his point. 

She fought and subsequently lost the battle to suppress an eye roll. _She has far better things to do than listen to me,_ Agnes thought bitterly. 

“Wherefore are you here?” she asked

Adultery didn’t answer, instead asking, “What’s _thwart_ mean?” again. 

Agnes defined the word (“To keep from accomplishing”), hoping that would be his only question. She knew it would not be, for two reasons: one, Thou-Shall-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer asked far too many questions, and two, she had seen this interaction play out in a dream of hers a fortnight ago - but she could hope. She could pray. 

“Art thou writing more prophecies?” Adultery asked. 

He was a sharp one, Agnes had to admit. Not particularly tactful or gracious, and he was far too steeped in religion to be anything close to _likable_ , but he was intelligent. Annoyingly so.

The boy didn’t wait for her answer, instead leaning around the older woman to look at her parchment. He couldn’t read yet, but he could recognize writing when he came across it. 

“What does this one say?” he asked.

She sighed. “It will not be to your liking,” she told him. He never liked any of her prophecies; not that she cared about the opinion of an 11-year-old, but...

“Tell me!” 

She did. “- and the end will say _thwart the evile of thine own creation/Lest love be ruin’d once more._ ”

Adultery chewed on the words. “No,” he eventually said.

“No?” Agnes repeated back at the child. 

“No.”

The older woman was at a loss for words. “Why not?”

The boy picked up her quill, tapping it against his lips pensively. “Thy prophecies are like an arrow, striking a calendar on the same day, no?” 

The child was correct - Agnes may not have understood the loud sounds and large, mechanical beasts that roamed the streets of the future, but if she had a vision on Easter, she could be certain the day in the future on which the event occurred was Easter day. Agnes nodded.

“Therefore, it cannot be _thrice fortnights lest LOVE_ be ruined!” He spat the word “love” in the way only children can - like it was full of bugs made of spinach. 

“I cannot?” 

“No!” Adultery was becoming exasperated at the connection Agnes was failing to make. “ _Christmas_ , Agnes!” 

It clicked. Christmas was, indeed, thrice fortnights away. 

The prophetess smiled at the child. “Ah, thank you child,” she agreed, mollifying him. Taking the quill from his hands, she turned her attention back to the parchment to make the following corrections: 

> _I feel thine Feeling inne mine body, fingers to toes_
> 
> _Christmas, stronge and True, hath surround’d me, and the Feeling groweth_
> 
> _The Winde speakes thine Fayte to me acrost the centuries_
> 
> _Thou shalle haveth thrice fortnights to thwart the evile of thine own creation_
> 
> _Lest the celebration of God be ruin’d once more_

She read this aloud to Adultery, who nodded appreciatively at her rewording. 

“Thy prophecies are vague to the point of referencing any event,” he said, repeating a joke she’d told him once, but removing all hints of humor with such precision, one could have mistaken him for a surgeon of words. 

“Indeed,” Agnes agreed. A part of her wanted to go back and make the prophecy rhyme, but she’d never been big on the showmanship part of being a prophetess - her prophecies were _true_ , which meant she didn’t have to work nearly as hard to get people to read them. Right?

She looked back at the small boy in her cottage, repeating her latest prophecy over and over under his breath, committing it to memory, and felt a small twinge in her stomach. There was a new prophecy she had seen regarding the boy, and she hoped, for the first time in her life, she was wrong. 

* * *

* * *

** 2020 **

Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell surveyed the scene before him with a critical eye. “Lads,” he said, as joyously as he could. “Good to see the entire Witchfinder Army lined up and looking their best!” He wiped away a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye. “An’ the Witchfinder Army looking so strong!” 

A knock came at his door, an urgent triad of raps. 

The old man crouched next to his cutlery, and whispered, “Ma’be if we ignore her, she’ll go _away_.” 

Upon the news of Newton Pulsifer’s engagement (“You’re getting _married?!_ ” Shadwell had yelped) to Anathema Device (“To a **_witch?!?_ **”), Shadwell had doubled down on his recruitment techniques. Much to the dismay of Madame Tracy, he’d spent every bit of the last six weeks either proselytizing on the street corner, eating or sleeping. Which had not done wonders for their burgeoning relationship. 

The Witchfinder Recruitment books reflected his hard work. And no one but Shadwell would ever know that he’d swapped one human recruit for an entire kitchen of appliances. He didn’t _need_ Newt after all; he had a healthy, growing army! 

Another set of knocks, followed by the jiggling of his door handle. 

“Mister Shadwell!” Madame Tracy’s voice squeezed through the cracks in the door frame. 

“Hush, yeh harlot!” 

“It’s not a Thursday, Mister Shadwell. Now, please hurry or we’re bound to be late!” There was a tapping noise from the hallway; Shadwell couldn’t discern if it was Tracy’s foot tapping on the ground or her fingernails on the door. 

He looked back at his gathering and rolled his eyes. “Women, amirite?” 

Another knock. 

“Keep your panties on, woman!” Then, Shadwell blushed. _Panties_ was a new word in his vocabulary, added only after he and Madame Tracy had begun spending more time together. 

His face was still red when he opened the door. 

Madame Tracy smiled at him, a warm, inviting smile. “There we are!” she said, relieved. “Was almost worried I’d have to break down the door meself!” 

Shadwell harrumphed. “Tha’ door has been inscribed with anti-witch locks and hexes, she-devil.” Plus, he’d just bought a new chain lock; that made six locks in total. “Yeh’d never be able to break the door down, even with all the devils in the world!” 

Madame Tracy smiled tersely at him. “Yes, yes, dear,” she said, eyeing the chain. “Let us in, will you? There’s a good man!” 

The old man harrumphed again, but did as he was asked, rolling his eyes in the brief moment while the door was closed. 

“Oh, dear,” Madame Tracy fussed as she pushed the door open, “your _collar_.” She primped and preened over him, folding the rattan collar this way and that, eventually sighing. “This won’t do at all - I’ll get you a tie.” 

“I though’ yeh said we were late!” Shadwell protested, mussing his collar. 

“We _are_ , but I will not have you looking like this for Newt and Anathema’s special day! Now, hold still!” 

Madame Tracy disappeared inside her apartment for only a moment before reappearing with a tie in hand. She’d known Shadwell would put up some sort of fight; in truth, she had two ties, a shirt, and a pair of men’s shoes in the front entryway of her apartment just in case. 

“There!” she exclaimed after tying him up with a hangman’s knot. “You look wonderful, Mister Shadwell!” The smile returned to her face as she forced his collar lie flat against the tie. 

A feeling of happiness wormed its way up from Shadwell’s stomach to his face, threatening to appear as a smile on his lips. In retaliation, Shadwell harrumphed a third time, and turned towards the door. “I don’t want to _go_ , woman!” 

Madame Tracy took the arm he hadn’t offered her and they walked down the stairs together. As they approached the door, Tracy said quietly so only he could hear, “Wouldn’t need to be strong enough to break your door down, dear; I’d only have to give the lovely boys at the Fire Department a ring and _they’d_ do it _for_ me.” To punctuate her sentence, she squeezed his arm. 

Shadwell muttered something under his breath. Madame Tracy only caught, “Bloody firemen, show you how to knock down a door,” before they reached the outside and all muttering was swept away by the sounds of London. 

* * *

“Oh, Pepper, I’m so glad you’re home, dear!” Pepper’s mother called as the front door slammed. 

Pepper took a deep breath and held it for a moment before responding. This was _not_ the time, but her mother’s welcome had carried more than a hint of desperation. “Hi, Mum!” she responded, a beat too late. 

“Come see who’s here, love!” Individually, the words were innocuous - merely a suggestion - but the tone which bore them to Pepper’s ears was an order. 

Instead of continuing the process of removing her shoes, Pepper shoved her feet back from whence they came, folding the backs of the shoes down to avoid losing time.

“Pepper?” her mother called once again, frustrated urgency now at the forefront of her tone. 

Blessedly, Pepper’s phone pinged - Wensleydale to the rescue! 

_W: list’s up! u seen yet?_

_P: don’t leave - i’m coming back out_

Pepper looked through the front window, towards the friends she’d just left, making eye contact with Brian. She held up her hands in a _WAIT_ gesture. 

Footsteps behind her alerted Pepper to the fact she was out of time. “ _Pippin Galadriel Moonchild_ ,” her mother scolded in a low tone. “You’re being _rude_.” 

“Sorry, Mum,” Pepper said in a tone which suggested she was, in fact, not sorry at all. “Wensley and Brian are waiting for me outside - they’ve got news!” She opened the door. 

Her mother put a hand on her hip and uttered an exasperated sigh. “You just came in!” 

“I’ll be back in a jiff, Mum!” 

A distinctly-male cough came from the dining room, and Pepper looked back at her mother, alarmed. 

“That’s what I was _trying_ to tell you.” Her mother looked nervous, which struck Pepper as odd; her mother was always so put together. 

“It’s… well, your father’s here,” her mother finished. 

Pepper’s mouth fell open in surprise. “ _Who?!_ ” she hissed. 

“Your father. He’s here. Having tea. He wants to meet you.” Her mother gave her a small smile and gestured towards the dining room. “Your sister’s already in there.” 

For a moment, Pepper didn’t know what to do. Her _father?_ She thought he was dead! Or, at the very least, an accountant on the other side of England with his own family to worry about. 

Then, her phone pinged again, snapping her out of her indecision. 

“Sorry, Mum,” Pepper repeated, stepping through the open door. “I can’t. I’ll be back later! We can talk then!” 

Before her mother could respond, she shut the door. If she was lucky - _very_ lucky - her not-dead-maybe-accountant father would be gone by the time she got back and everything could go back to normal. 

Taking another deep breath, Pepper ran across the road, returning to Wensleydale and Brian. 

“Hey guys,” she greeted them as though she hadn’t just said goodbye a minute earlier. “So, the list’s up?” Pepper hoped that, by asking the first question, she’d avoid the microscope of conversation being trained on her. 

“I’m going to be the lobster!” Brian said cheerfully. 

Pepper had been doing well with all the oddities of the past few minutes, but this one tripped her up. “The lobster?” she asked carefully. 

Brian’s wide smile remained. “Yeah!” 

“I-in the nativity play?” Pepper confirmed. 

“ _First_ lobster,” Wensleydale corrected. He sounded far less enthused about the casting decisions. 

Pepper felt like something had gone seriously awry but couldn’t figure out if it was with the world around her or with her brain. “There was _more than one lobster_ present at the birth of Jesus?” 

“Duh,” Brian said. “Guess which part _you_ got!” 

This question was more concrete; Pepper felt like she had a solid enough grasp on the world to answer this one. “Which?” 

“Mary, of course,” he smiled at her. 

When Pepper smiled back at him, elated at the casting having gone in her favor, Brian blushed. 

This reaction was new - boys had always acted weird _with_ her, but now they were reacting weird _around_ her. It hadn't been a problem yet, but a small part of her was worried that it would only be a matter of time before it was. 

Nonchalantly, or as nonchalantly as she could manage, she asked, “Who’s Joseph?” 

Both boys rolled their eyes; Wensley even went so far as to scoff. “The _American_ ,” he said disdainfully. 

_Oh_ , Pepper thought, her heart leaping into her chest. She tried to keep her smile from growing too large; there was very little she could do about the strange sensation in her stomach. Perhaps all the bad luck she left inside her house would be worth it if that meant she could get to kiss - 

“Wait til Adam sees his part,” Brian jibed, bisecting Pepper’s train of thought. “First and second lobsters might be bad, but what thirteen-year old wants to be baby Jesus?”

* * *

Death moved through the streets of London as though it was his job. On most days, he’d stroll lazily, reaping souls as he saw fit, but today was not most days. No, today, Death was running late for an engagement. 

_THEY’RE ALREADY ENGAGED_ , he corrected. _THIS IS A WEDDING_. 

Still, no reason he couldn’t make a stop that was along the way. 

He paused at the curbside, checking his wrist as though he wasn’t constantly aware of precisely how many moments there were until the heat death of the universe. Or as if he owned a watch. 

A beautiful woman bumped into him. “Oi!” she exclaimed, looking up at him; to her, he looked like a pimply teenager in a loud t-shirt which proclaimed that he was the purveyor of the ‘Best Sandwiches in Britain’. 

“Watch where you’re going!” she chided him nastily. 

He smiled at her. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator, whose skills had been honed over a millennia of hunting humans. The smile unnerved the woman, and she took a step back. 

Unfortunately for her, instead of being a step away from danger, she stepped directly into the path of an oncoming bus. 

When she came to (or rather, when her spirit detached itself from her body), she looked back towards the pimply teenager who’d been the cause of her untimely demise. 

Instead of finding the teen, she stared directly into the face of Death himself. 

“NO,” he said. “YOU WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING.” 

* * *

Things had certainly changed in the year since Armaggedon’t, and God had Her work cut out for Her getting things back to normal. 

Adam _had_ brought everyone back who had needlessly died, but being 11 (at the time), he couldn’t be expected to set everything back _just_ the way it had been. 

The scene in front of Her, for example, was Her way of pinning one of the last loose ends back in place. 

“Okay, you can stop there,” God said to the humans in front of her. “Thanks!” She hopped down off of her director’s chair and made her way to Craft Services; croissants didn’t exist in Heaven, and by Her, She was going to get Her fill before She went back.

The humans broke apart, smiling awkwardly at one another. As far as either one of them were aware, they’d never met before today. 

The man shuffled a step closer to the woman. “By the way,” he said, smiling broadly. “She introduced me as The International Express Man, but everyone calls me -”

“Oh, nice to meet you!” The woman extended her hand to the man. “She got me right, though. I’m merely Maud.” 

Although God wasn’t watching, She could tell the two humans were getting along fabulously. She’d thrown in a heavy dose of familiarity to hopefully speed their courtship up and get things back to normal as quickly as possible. 

“Magnificent, merely Maud!” He shook her hand enthusiastically.

 _All according to the Plan._

* * *

The Moonchild household was a flutter with activity, but no one was talking about anything important. There were only three of them now - Pepper had been wrangled in from outside, and her father had been unceremoniously escorted out, having been told “come back tomorrow for tea”. They had a wedding to get to after all. 

It wasn’t until they were in the car that Pepper’s mother spoke, broaching the topic of their unexpected visitor. “I thought I’d have more time to prepare for this moment,” she said, turning the radio down. 

Pepper’s younger sister opened her mouth to respond, but her mother got there first. 

“Your father is a perfectly…” she trailed off, clearly trying to choose her next word carefully. “ _Reasonable_ individual,” Pepper’s mother finished. “He was never the reason I left the hippies, though he certainly didn’t make me want to _stay_.” 

“I thought he was dead,” Pepper interjected. 

At this, her mother let out a short laugh. “Why in the world would you think that?” 

In the backseat, Pepper and her sister exchanged a look; they’d spent many a night when they were younger debating their father. Her mother said so little about him that, before Pepper had gone through a health class, neither of them were sure they even had a father at all. 

“You never told us about him, Mum,” the youngest Moonchild said plainly. 

Their mother sighed. “No, I suppose not.” She drummed her hands on the steering wheel, waiting for the light to change. “Your father and I met on my first day in the commune. He helped grow our, well, our _vegetables_.” Ms. Moonchild cleared her throat before continuing. 

“I thought he was so handsome that when they asked me where I’d like to work, I immediately said the gardens.”

“But Mum,” Pepper’s younger sister interrupted. “You hate gardening.”

“I do,” their mother agreed, throwing a glance at her girls in the rear view mirror. “You should _never_ change yourself to be with a partner, girls; this story is proof of that.” 

The light changed and they took off, lurching forward from the light. “Your father was sweet, and though he had some ideas I didn’t quite agree with, I could ignore them well enough.”

“Because he was pretty?” Pepper asked.

“Because he was pretty,” her mother agreed. “But when it became apparent that I was pregnant with you,” she said, looking back at Pepper, “those _ideas_ of his suddenly became more of an issue.”

“What did he -?” 

“He wanted to get married. I would have had very little objection to this, except he didn’t want to marry me because we were in love - though, I was. No, he wanted to get married because he thought it improper for children to be raised without two parents. He didn’t think I could do it on my own. He said that, having been an accountant in his life before the commune, he could go back and make good money for this child and all children we would have after you, Pepper.” 

Pepper took a moment to count a silent victory towards guessing her father’s profession correctly. 

They turned onto the motorway and Ms. Moonchild kept them firmly in the left-hand lane. “I told him precisely where he could stick that idea of his, and I dumped him. He became so distraught that he left the vegetables unattended one night, and the sheep got into them.”

“So he was sexist _and_ lazy,” Pepper said. 

“He was. At the time.” Their mother waved at an angry driver who sped around them. “I never thought he’d show up here, after all this time, saying how wrong he was before to try and ‘clip my wings’. When I left the commune, I thought I’d take your father back over my dead body, but now…?” 

Pepper’s sister scooted as far forward as the seat belt would allow. “Do you still love him?”

Ms. Moonchild’s frown deepened. “I don’t know.” 

“What time is he coming back tomorrow?” Pepper asked. After hearing her mother’s story, she fully intended to be out of the house for as long as she could tomorrow, but she didn’t want to ruin her plan by popping back for lunch at the wrong time. 

“Around tea time,” her mother said. Ms. Moonchild shook her head once, as if trying to clear something from her mind, and looked back at her daughters with misty eyes. She said nothing further. 

Pepper’s sister still had a plethora of questions, but their mother ignored all attempts to resume the conversation, instead turning the radio volume up. After a moment, Pepper shot a withering glance at her sister, which succeeded in quieting the youngest Moonchild. The family drove along the motorway, serenaded by the awful pop station Ms. Moonchild loved. 

> _"Bye bye baby, baby goodbye_
> 
> _"Goodbye baby, baby bye bye_
> 
> _"Bye bye baby_
> 
> _"Don't make me cry_
> 
> _"Goodbye baby, baby bye bye_
> 
> _"You're the one girl in town I'd marry_
> 
> _"Girl I'd marry you now if I were free_
> 
> _"I wish it could be_
> 
> _"I could love you but why begin it?_
> 
> _"Cos there ain't any future in it_
> 
> _"She's got me but I'm not free so..."_
> 
> _"Bye bye baby, baby goodbye_
> 
> _"Goodbye baby, baby bye bye_

* * *

“No surprises?” Newt asked uncomfortably. 

“There are _never_ any surprises with this family, Newton,” Anathema’s cousin drawled. His name was Mordecai. Or Cicero? Hell, for as far as Newt knew, it could simply be Daniel. 

_I should_ **_know_ ** _this by now_ , he worried with a start. _If I don’t know the names of all her family members, why are we even getting married?_

He looked back to the cousin whose name he did not know; on the spot, he decided he’d call him Mordecai until otherwise notified. “But the stag night -” he began. 

Mordecai sighed, cutting Newt off. “Just because it’s a surprise to _you_ doesn’t mean it was a surprise to anyone else.” 

“Oh,” Newt responded flatly. Another worry sprang up in the back of his mind - the Book (he always thought about it with a capital “B”) had only gone up to Armageddon. And the second book (he hadn’t read that one, so it was a lowercase “b”) had been burned. He _watched_ it burn. So why did it sound like his soon-to-be-family member had a view into the future? 

For a moment, Mordecai looked concerned; the anxiety must have been written on Newt’s face (and indeed, it was). Mordecai made a move that looked suspiciously like he was intending to pat Newt on the back. Newt was unsure if the gesture was going to help him or simply add to his anxiety.

Thankfully, Mordecai’s hand never made contact. The bride’s music began, causing both men to jump, and forcefully snapping Newt out of his worry-spiral. Mordecai put his hand down and simply said, “Good luck,” to the groom.

The back door of the church swung open, and in stepped Anathema. 

She had opted out of a white wedding dress, instead going with a dark blue gown. It looked for all the world like something Newt could pull out of her closet with the exception of the long train of fabric which trailed behind her. Satin green embroidery lined the bottom of her dress and train, adding a ring of stitched feathers to the dress. 

Her hair was done in the same bun she wore everyday, but a few pieces of hair around her face had been carefully pulled free from the bun and subsequently curled, framing her face. The veil, which was also blue with delicate green embroidery at the edges, was tucked into the top of her bun, along with two green feathers. 

She looked for all the world like a very large peacock. 

She looked stunning. 

Newt now felt like he might cry for a far different reason: he had never seen anyone as beautiful as the woman walking down the aisle towards him. He loved her, and, here was the craziest thing, she loved him. Together, he knew, they’d be able to handle any surprise life might throw at them. As long as they were together, Newt felt like he had all the knowledge about the future he needed. 

* * *

Gabriel had never been to Downing Street. He had _heard_ of Downing Street, of course, but prior to Armageddon (or what he _thought_ was Armageddon), he’d been completely uninterested in the machinations of the humans on Earth. 

Now, however, what with the decided _lack_ of end-of-the-world activities, he’d been forced to reconsider.

“I don’t like this corporeal suit,” he complained from the backseat of the car. He also didn’t enjoy being in vehicles - they always made him feel vaguely sick. How did humans manage to spend most of their lives in a moving vehicle of some kind or another? 

“You look positively human,” Michael responded distractedly. “That’s all that matters.” 

Indeed, it had seemed to be all that mattered; his corporeal being had been chosen specifically to be relatively attractive, but not intimidatingly so; just attractive enough to be listened to and perhaps given the occasional benefit of the doubt in a sticky situation. If (and when) he misspoke, he’d been able to flash a smile and walk his statement back. While some had been dubious, it seemed that the qualifications one needed to be an Archangel translated well into Earthly politics. 

And it _had_ made him Prime Minister. 

Gabriel made a non-committal noise and turned to look back out the window. He then immediately regretted that decision, feeling a wave of nausea as the road whipped by outside. 

“Ugh,” he continued to complain, putting his head in his hands. 

Michael tutted. “You won’t have to do this for long,” she said. 

“Yes, but…” Gabriel was unsure how to phrase his sentiment as inoffensively as possible; thankfully for him, the nausea pushed it out of him. “Working _with_ Hell?” 

“Gabriel, we’ve been _over_ this,” Michael said, tapping her foot annoyedly. “The _last_ time, we were thwarted because one hand didn’t know what the other was doing. If we work together, we’ll be able to have the war everyone wants.” 

The car lurched to a halt, throwing Gabriel face-first into the back of the seat in front of him. 

“I don’t like it,” he said, righting himself. He checked on his nose, uttering a soft “ow” when he touched the bridge of it; these corporeal bodies were so _squishy._

“You don’t _have_ to like it,” Michael smiled dryly at him. “You just have to follow the plan.” She snapped her fingers, miracling his nose back into place. 

The car door opened, and Gabriel stepped out of it into the cold, English day. Around him, crowds of humans shouted a myriad of kind and unkind things. Cameras snapped thousands of photos of him. He plastered a smile on his face and nodded at the crowd of people. _His_ people.

“Wave!” Michael hissed through her own smile. 

He waved at the crowds once before stepping through the door of 10 Downing Street. 

“I don’t understand waves,” Gabriel said once the door was closed behind Michael. 

“You’ll have to work on it,” she replied quickly. “How are you feeling?” 

Feelings were new for Gabriel, so he took a minute before responding. “Powerful.” Even as he said it, Gabriel knew it wasn’t the entire truth; he felt powerful in a different way. A distinctly human way. 

He shivered.

“Would you like to meet your staff?” 

Gabriel nodded and allowed himself to be led through the house, along a line of people. Well, _people_ was the wrong word - all the _people_ were outside. This house was populated by celestial beings in human suits. 

“This,” Michael said, pointing at a demon who looked like an old man, “is Mephistopheles.” 

“I remember you,” Gabriel said, nodding at him. “You made all the dark bits in the sky before -” The Archangel stopped himself just shy of saying _before you Fell_ , but Mephistopheles seemed to know where he was going with his statement regardless. 

“Anyway,” Gabriel continued awkwardly. “I always liked the dark bits the best. Stars can get so bright, you know?” 

Mephistopheles stood a little taller and gave a curt nod. “Indeed.” 

“ _This_ ,” Michael said loudly, pulling Gabriel to the next celestial being in the row. “Is Pat.”

“Short for Pathiel, sir,” Pat said, extending a hand. “I’m the angel in charge of housekeeping.”

“Right!” Gabriel shook Pat’s hand. “Opener of God!”

Pat nodded solemnly. 

“With us being a bunch of _HUMANS_ ,” Gabriel said, putting the final word in air-quotes, “your job should be pretty easy.” He was slightly relieved there was at least one angel on his close staff. 

“Not that kind of housekeeping, sir,” Pat said, eyeing the demon on her left. 

“Ah.” 

“And finally,” Michael interrupted, showing off the final member of staff, “this is Beelzebub. They’re a last minute addition to the team.” 

Beelzebub did not smile at Gabriel; instead, they glared at him. 

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Gabriel asked the demon. 

Beelzebub nodded. The swarm of flies began buzzing loudly around their head. “That’zz why I’m here,” they said flatly. “Someone downstairzz got it in their _stupid_ heads that _relationzz_ would be easier if they sent me to deal with you bastards.” 

Mephistopheles cleared his throat loudly, and Beelzebub sighed. “Shit, can’t call you that here - you _angels_.” Their final word overflowed with sarcasm, and for the first time in nearly a year, Gabriel smiled. A real smile. 

“That’s alright,” he said back to them. “You should hear the names we use for you lot.” 

Beelzebub’s ears perked up, and a small smile played across their lips. “Like what?” 

“Well, there’s my favorite: you absolute -”

“RIGHT!” Michael shouted, interrupting Gabriel for the umpteeth time. “I’ll get my things, and then let’s fix Armageddon, shall we?” 

Gabriel looked from Beelzebub to Michael then back to Beelzebub. The smile was gone from the demon’s lips by his second glance. They were now incredibly interested in their fingernails, shoving what dirt was already under them even further in. 

“Right,” Gabriel conceded. 

Michael showed him into his office and then left to retrieve her aforementioned “things”. 

As soon as he was alone, Gabriel took a deep breath. The car-induced nausea had returned, but it was tinged with something else. Something _new_. 

In fact, if he had to describe it, he would have said there was a rampant swarm of flies buzzing in his stomach. 

“That is… inconvenient,” he said aloud.

* * *

The ceremony was beautiful; no one in attendance needed a book of prophecies to tell them it was the most beautiful wedding they had ever been to. 

“In the presence of God,” the Vicar intoned to the gathering before him. “Newton and Anathema have given their consent and made their marriage vows to each other. They declared their marriage by the giving and receiving of rings. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife!” He smiled at the couple immediately in front of him. “You may now kiss the bride.” 

Newt resisted the urge to bowl his now-wife over with the intensity of his kiss, but luckily for him, Anathema did not. She enveloped him in a passionate kiss, breaking away just long enough to whisper “I love you,” to her now-husband, before kissing him again. 

The beginning of the wedding march broke them apart, bringing both humans back to their senses. 

Newt smiled at his wife, then shot a glance over to Mordecai ( _No, definitely not Mordecai; he looks far more like a Cicero_ ). “You resisted the temptation for surprises!” he said cheerfully. 

Cicero sighed wearily. “Again, there _are_ no surprises in this family, Newton.”

“There are now, Petey,” Anathema said to her cousin. 

Newt did a small double-take. _Petey?!_ He had guessed a lot of names in the last half hour, but he never, _ever_ would have guessed _Petey_. 

Anathema tugged him down the aisle, towards their family and friends and most importantly the door. The happy couple made it all of two steps before the music changed to something far jazzier; the soft bass became bouncy and emphatic, the flute was replaced by a trumpet, and the pianist began to play like there was still life left in him. 

Newt recognized the song as one of Anathema’s favorites - "If I Could Write a Book _”_ by Sinatra. They’d listened to it at least a dozen times while trying to pick a song to dance to, but ultimately had gone with “More Than Words”. 

She gasped, clutching onto her husband’s arm. “Did you do this?” she asked, looking at Newt with bright eyes. 

He had barely a moment to shake his head before the singer stepped out from behind the curtain in the choir loft. As he did so, he drew the curtain back completely, revealing the rest of the band. 

“If they ask me, I could write a book,” the singer began to croon. “About the way you walk and whisper and look!” 

Newt looked back to Petey, confused. His cousin-in-law had a wry smile on his face, but shook his head, denying any involvement. 

“I could write a preface on how we met, so the world would never forget.” 

Anathema took Newt’s other hand and began to dance with him. “And the simple secret of the plot,” she sang to him, all smiles. “Is to tell them that I love you a lot!” She took the short break in lyrics to kiss Newt’s cheek, before continuing, “Then, the world discovers as my book ends - How to make two lovers of friends.” 

At this, Newt dipped Anathema backwards, just like they’d practiced in their dance lessons. Thankfully, unlike their dance lessons, she kept her feet under her, managing to come back to both feet when Newt pulled her up. 

“I love you,” he said, touching his forehead to hers. 

“I know,” she responded.

* * *

Not everyone would want Death at their wedding; in fact, there are very few people on this Earth who would (despite the fact he is an excellent dancer). 

He moved through the crowd easily, with an unexpected grace for a being of his height. This was not the only unexpected thing about him; in his right hand, he also carried a small plate of appetizers. 

Death stepped into a group of humans and held the plate outstretched. “DELICIOUS DELICACY?” he offered to Anathema’s family.

Lesser mortals would have taken a step back at the sudden intrusion, then several more when they realized who was offering them the food. But Anathema’s family, on average, were slightly more than lesser mortals. 

Her mother looked at the food being offered, then gave a small smile and held up a hand, declining the offer. “No, thank you,” she said. 

Death nodded in understanding, turning to proffer the plate to the other members of the group. “FOOD?” 

The remaining members of the group also declined Death’s offer, with varying degrees of eye contact. 

In Death’s defense, the food had looked terrible to begin with; after a few minutes in his presence, however, it looked more desiccated than any food had the right to be. 

“If you’ll excuse us,” Anathema’s mother said from behind Death. “We have business to discuss, and would prefer -”

“I UNDERSTAND,” Death said, cutting her off. 

He swept out of the group, taking his meager offerings with him. 

Death was not one for _companionship_ \- the very nature of his job demanded he must be a solitary creature - but in the last year, he’d been feeling a strange feeling in the hollow of his chest. 

_Loneliness_. 

War, Pollution, and Famine hadn’t been his _friends_ , exactly; their relationship had probably been closer to that of subordinates. They had each killed humans in droves, which had made Death’s job easier, especially now there were so many humans. The short time the Four Horsemen had spent together at the end of the world accounted for some of Death’s favorite memories. 

But now there was only one Horseman left. Him. 

As he looked around the wedding reception, he saw groups of humans everywhere: from the large groupings like Anathema’s family to pairs in corners, it looked to Death like there was someone for everyone. 

Except him. 

He sighed a loud, raspy sigh and nimbly waltzed his way back to the kitchen. 

God’s head turned as Death entered the kitchen. “How’s the crowd, Azazel?” She asked. 

“OH, YOU KNOW,” Death answered. “MORTAL.” 

God nodded as She continued to chop carrots. In this day and age, She wasn’t invited to many weddings anymore, instead relegated to watch from above and give Her blessing if the couple requested it. She was _thrilled_ to be involved in this wedding, even if it was somewhat behind the scenes. 

Death sighed again, leaning up against the cabinet. The kale next to his arm began to wilt, going black and turning to ash where his robe touched the leafy green. 

The Almighty shot death a brief withering look of Her own before snapping Her fingers, moving the kale 6 inches to the left and out of Death’s reach. 

“What is it, Azazel?” God asked, looking up at the angel. She knew what he wanted to talk about - why he was hovering - but it wouldn’t be much of a conversation if She jumped the gun. And She so missed having conversations. 

“I’M LONELY,” Death admitted. “EVERYONE ELSE CAME BACK AFTER ARMAGEDDON, BUT NOT -” He cut himself off, unsure as to how to describe War, Famine, and Pollution. 

God placed a gentle hand on his boney arm. “The world has no need for them anymore,” She said. 

Death’s chest shook; it sounded like someone was trying to laugh, except they had maracas for lungs and those lungs were insulated with the crispest of Autumn leaves. “THE WORLD WILL ALWAYS HAVE NEED FOR THEM,” he retorted. 

“Perhaps,” God conceded, revealing exactly nothing. “But right now, they don’t.” Then, She brightened, and clapped Death on the shoulder. “Maybe you should take a vacation! Get your mind off them!” 

“I’VE BEEN EVERYWHERE.”

“But only when you’re working, right?” She began to chop carrots once more, somehow moving at twice the speed of a normal chef. “Take some time; go find yourself!”

Death considered this for a moment. He picked up a piece of carrot and allowed it to turn to dust in his hand. “I _DO_ ALWAYS ENJOY AMERICA, WHEN I’M THERE,” he said eventually, dropping the carrot dust to the floor. 

It was true - America felt more like home to Death than any other country in the world. He was a big fan of their gun policies and opinions about socialized healthcare - it was almost as though they put a big red bow on every soul that came his way. And presents always put him in good spirits. 

_MAYBE,_ he thought to himself, _I CAN FIND SOME PEOPLE LIKE WAR OR FAMINE OR POLLUTION WHILE I’M THERE_.

As though hearing his thoughts, God shook Her head. “I said ‘find _yourself_ ’ - don’t go recruiting any billionaires while you’re there, Azazel,” She admonished. “You need time to heal.” 

“I AM DEATH INCARNATE.” 

“ _Emotionally_ ,” God clarified. 

“I’M GOING TO AMERICA,” Death reaffirmed, ignoring God’s statement. “I’M GOING ON VACATION TO AMERICA.” _AND I’M GOING TO FIND NEW FRIENDS._

* * *

Maud stood next to the cute, albeit quiet understudy, waiting for their next cue. They hadn’t exchanged many words since their introduction, and Maud was itching to get to know him better. 

The man shifted; perhaps it was just her imagination, but he seemed to shift a little bit closer to her. 

“The traffic,” he began nervously. Maud found the tremor in his voice endearing. “The traffic was just -”

“Unbelievable!” she finished, smiling at him. Her heart leapt into her throat when he returned her smile. Her psychic had told her that she’d suffered a great loss, which was bound to be corrected before the beginning of the next year. Maud certainly didn’t remember a great loss, but her psychic had been adamant. _The spirits don’t lie, dear_ , the old woman had told her. 

Perhaps assuming this man would correct the great loss she didn’t know she’d suffered was too much, but she certainly felt… something when her co-star was close by. 

God, or as She preferred to go by on Earth, the Director returned to Her chair with a plateful of croissants. “Alright!” She said with a smile. “Let’s pick back up where we left off!” 

An assistant clapped the clapperboard, signalling the beginning of filming. Maud shot one last smile at her scene partner before slipping into character.

* * *

Aziraphale was hovering on the edge of the dance floor, watching Anathema and Newt dance their first dance as a married couple. It was quite sweet, if he was to be honest. Yes, the whole human ritual involved with pledging oneself to another person was lovely. 

Another person caught Aziraphale’s attention: Anathema’s mother. She was standing on the edge of the dance floor looking as though she was vacillating between ecstatic and incredibly depressed.

Aziraphale moved closer to her and cleared his throat. “A lovely wedding,” he said. 

Anathema’s mother shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose,” she agreed. “It was always going to be.”

The angel wasn’t sure what to say in response, so he moved along with his own line of questioning. “Quite sweet how they got together, and all. Do you like him?” 

At this, Mrs. Device turned to Aziraphale, seemingly bewildered. “What?”

Aziraphale’s smile widened as he tried to put the woman at ease. “I suppose it’s not a question typically asked. I thought I’d ask in case no one had asked you and you wanted to talk -”

“No,” Mrs. Device interrupted him. “No is the answer.” 

“Ah,” the angel sighed. They both turned back to the dance floor. 

> _"Bye bye baby, don't make me cry_
> 
> _"Goodbye baby, baby bye bye_
> 
> _"Wish I never had known you..."_

“He’s fine,” Mrs. Device said after a moment. “There was never any choice.” Her voice sounded heavy, resigned. 

“There’s always a choice,” Aziraphale contradicted, turning back to the woman. 

She did not meet his gaze, instead keeping her eyes trained on the newlyweds. The song ended and she sighed. “For some things. Like this DJ; we should have paid more for the DJ.” 

The angel, who did not know much about music past the 18th century, nodded knowledgeably. “Worst _dee-jay_ in the world.” 

* * *

The Them had been invited to the wedding, of course, but they were, by far, the youngest in attendance. Or, the youngest in attendance who knew the bride and groom personally. 

Stopping Armageddon together forms a bond between people that is hard to replicate. Since that day, over a year ago, the group had kept in touch. Anathema had hosted a small party when she and Newt had gotten engaged, and Aziraphale had done some creative miracle work to keep the youth’s parents from asking too many questions (namely: “Why are you friends with so many adults?”). 

Adam now sat at one of the tables, listlessly watching Newt and Anathema share their first dance. He’d thought that weddings were supposed to be exciting; instead, he’d spent the last three hours in a church listening to a preacher drone on about being in love. He may not have _technically_ been the antichrist anymore, but he had been a bit too excited to leave the church after the ceremony; the incense at the wedding made his skin feel weird. 

Then, they’d come to the reception hall, where Adam had expected to hang out with his friends and have a good time, but that had all gone sideways too. Wensley and Brian had gotten into a fight about something, Pepper was busy talking to Anathema, and even the angel and the demon were wrapped up in their own world. 

“Hullo,” a girl greeted Adam, taking him by surprise. “Is this seat taken?” 

Adam shook his head, sitting up a little bit straighter. 

The girl was very pretty - bright green eyes, brown hair, and a wide smile. Something about her seemed familiar to Adam, but he couldn’t place his finger on what it was. 

“I’m Lucy,” she said, offering her hand to Adam. 

“Adam,” he said, shaking her hand. “How do you ...?” He trailed off, losing track of his train of thought half way through. She was so very pretty, but not in an overly-pretty way. If he had to describe it, he would have said she was pretty enough to remain unsuspicious. 

_Why would she be suspicious?_ Adam thought for a moment, but before he could answer himself, the question was swept away by Lucy’s answer. 

“Friends of the bride,” Lucy said. 

“ _You’re_ a friend of Anathema?” Adam was sure he’d never seen Lucy before, but maybe he had; maybe she’d been at one of their get-togethers once. Maybe that was why she seemed familiar. 

Lucy laughed, and Adam had the notion that he’d do anything to make her laugh again. “My parents are,” she said with a wave of her hand. Then she trained her eyes back on Adam. “How about you, Adam?” 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Friend of the bride. Well, and the groom.” 

The girl smiled at Adam and he felt his stomach twist. “You’ve got grown-up friends?” 

“Yeah,” he said again, hoping that would impress her. “Some really grown-up ones.” 

Lucy leaned over, putting her elbows on the table. “Like who?” 

“Like, um.” Adam scanned the crowd in front of them. “Like _them_!” he said, pointing to Aziraphale and Crowley. 

When he turned back to meet Lucy’s gaze, he found that it was no longer as kind as it had been a moment before; now, she seemed a bit incredulous. 

“Those are grandparents - I don’t believe _you_ would be friends with a grandpa,” she said, crossing her arms. Her tone was confrontational, as if she wanted Adam to prove her wrong. 

“I am friends with them,” he insisted. 

“Prove it.” 

For a second, Adam found himself at a loss for words. “Well,” he said finally, “they’re in love.” 

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Any _idiot_ with eyes can see that,” she said, gesturing to them. “If you’re really friends with them, you should get them to do something about it.” 

“What?”

She leaned in closer, close enough that Adam was able to smell her perfume. Girls his age had only started wearing perfume, now that everyone was firmly on the puberty highway to adulthood, but usually, other girls perfume only made his head hurt. Lucy’s wasn’t like that - it was intoxicating in a way which Adam didn’t have the words to express. 

For a moment, he felt like he had his old powers back. 

“I think,” Lucy said, looking towards the celestial beings, “you should go ask… the _tall_ one,” she chose at random, “if he’s willing to do anything about how in love he is with the short one.” 

Adam said yes and was out of his chair before he could process what he’d even been asked to do. 

As he neared Aziraphale and Crowley, the angel spotted him first. “You look dapper today, young master Adam!” Aziraphale greeted him. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “No one talks to kids like that, angel,” he said. 

“Ah, but my dear,” Aziraphale corrected, turning his smile back to Crowley. “Adam is no longer a child! He is a young man!” 

Adam felt a blush rise in his cheeks. He was torn between wanting to look back across the dance floor to Lucy and getting through this embarrassing conversation on his own. After a moment of deliberation, he decided on the latter, reasoning that it would make him seem cooler. 

“Aziraphale,” Adam said, drawing the angel’s attention back to him. “I think Shadwell needs your help. He’s out back.” 

“Oh!” the angel exclaimed. He passed his cake plate to Crowley before bustling off across the floor to the exit door. 

Adam looked back at Crowley and took a deep breath. “Crowley,” he began unsteadily. “H-how long have you been here?”

“Well,” Crowley said, tipping his head slightly. “The party started about… three hours ago?” 

“No,” Adam corrected himself. “How long have you been on _Earth_?” 

“Oh.” Crowley’s eyebrows knitted together. “Six thousand years, one month, six days, and I suppose…” He checked his watch. “What, six hours?” 

Adam nodded, trying to keep his nerve about him. “And how long have you been in love with Aziraphale?” he asked. 

Crowley was pale to begin with, and, as he was an incorporeal being, he had no blood flowing through his body. And yet, at Adam’s question, Crowley became deathly pale. His mouth fell open, and he dropped the cake plate in his hand.

The noise of the plastic fork hitting the floor snapped Crowley out of his shock, and he looked down, swearing profusely. With a snap of his fingers, he righted the cake and the plate, placing it onto the closest table. The demon then flopped down into a chair and put his head in his hands. 

“Six thousand years, one month, six days, and, I suppose, five hours and thirty minutes,” he admitted, so quietly Adam nearly missed his response. 

“I thought as much.” 

Crowley’s head snapped up. “Does everyone know?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Adam said. 

The demon went whiter than a sheet of printer paper. “Do you think _Az_ -?” He choked on the angel’s name, horrified at the prospect. 

“Yes,” Adam repeated. 

“Oh,” Crowley said, staring at the piece of cake. In one swift movement, almost too fast for Adam to see, Crowley swept up the piece of cake and put it into his mouth. He chewed once, maybe twice, before swallowing the cake. 

“I just thought,” Adam ventured as Crowley swallowed the remaining confection, “that the time had come to, you know - do something about it?” 

“What do _you_ know about love, antichrist?” Crowley snapped. “You’re just a _kid_.” 

Adam’s stomach turned uncomfortably, but not unpleasantly, as Lucy came to the forefront of his mind. 

“And besides,” Crowley continued, deflating somewhat. “What would I even do?” He snapped his fingers, and a glass of champagne appeared in his hand. The demon knocked the glass back and refilled it, draining it once more. He looked at Adam expectantly. 

Adam had been out of his depth before starting the conversation, and now he felt as though he were meddling with things he didn’t understand at all. Preventing the end of the world had felt simple compared to this conversation. 

Outwardly, however, Adam merely shrugged. “I dunno. Invite him for a drink?” That was something adults did, right? “Then, after twenty minutes, tell him you love him and you want to marry him.” 

Instead of immediately rejecting this idea, like Adam had expected, Crowley seemed to mull over Adam’s proposed solution. “ _You_ know I want to marry him?” he finally asked.

“ _Yes_ ,” Adam said in a rushed breath; this was _working_ and he was eternally grateful. Looking up, he saw Aziraphale bustling back across the floor. “And so does Aziraphale.” 

The ex-antichrist stood up to move away from the demon, but Crowley grabbed his arm before he could move away. “What if it doesn’t work?” he fretted. 

Adam placed a hand on Crowley’s boney shoulder, feeling very much like he was play-acting someone twice his age. “It will - it’s Christmas, and good things always happen at Christmas.” He squeezed the demon’s shoulder, pretending to be his father for a moment. 

“Right,” Crowley said, letting go of Adam. “Yes, right, will do.” 

Aziraphale reached the table, causing Crowley to jump when he said, “My dear, your presence is requ - what happened to my cake?” 

Adam took the angel’s arrival as his cue to sneak away, back to his own table. Back to Lucy. 

When he arrived, Lucy was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a napkin with loopy handwriting sat on Adam’s vacant chair. 

> _Well done; I didn’t think you still had it in you._
> 
> _XOXO Lucy_

Adam didn’t know exactly what she meant by “still had it”, but he was utterly distracted by the “XOXO” at the bottom. His heart swelled.

* * *

Adam may have been lying when he said Shadwell needed Aziraphale, but the situation ended up requiring his presence. The angel found the old man in the back alley behind the wedding venue, smoking a cigarette and flipping through a pocketbook. 

“Sergeant Shadwell!” Aziraphale exclaimed, starling the man. “I hear you are in need of my services?” 

Shadwell slapped his free hand to his chest dramatically. “Aye! Don’t yeh ever think about startling an old man! Aye coulda _died_!” 

Aziraphale smiled at Shadwell patiently. “You shouldn’t smoke, you know; it’s bad for your health.” 

Shadwell shot a look at the angel. “Now yeh sound like the harlot, yeh great big pansy.” He continued to smoke. 

“Madame Tracy wants you to quit smoking?” 

In response, Shadwell took a long drag on his cigarette, continuing to stare at Aziraphale. When he lost his nerve (as a staring contest with an angel is, in fact, quite unnerving), Shadwell returned to his book. 

“What do you have there, Sgt. Shadwell?” Aziraphale asked, scooting closer. 

“Ack!” Shadwell exclaimed, taking a step backwards. Unfortunately for him, he had become cornered between the trash bins and Aziraphale. “Cannae man have any privacy these days?” He clutched the book to his chest, binding facing outwards. 

Aziraphale saw the word _Finances_ printed in a looping, black scrawl on the front cover. “Considering that I am a _source_ of your finances, Sergeant. Shadwell,” the angel said in a firmer tone, trying to keep the smile on his face. “I would expect to be able to see your books. To see if I am paying you fairly for your services,” he added hastily. 

“Yeh’re not the _only_ source of income there, pansy,” Shadwell muttered. 

When Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched in confusion, Shadwell felt a swell of anger in his chest. “Aye know yehs think I’m a _fool_ ,” he yelled, “but ayem no fool! Aye’ve planned my future! Aye’ve played both of yehs! If anything, _yeh’re_ the fool, pansy!” 

He finished his statement, out of breath, with an accusatory finger pointed at the angel. 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows returned to their normal height and then sunk lower as he pondered Shadwell’s statement. “Do you mean to tell me,” he began in a quiet voice, “that you’ve been taking money from both myself _and_ Crowley?” 

Shadwell blanched. “Aye, aye - what aye mean to say is -”

The angel’s blank face stopped Shadwell’s blustering in its tracks. 

“Stay here,” Aziraphale commanded, voice laden with the power of Heaven. Shadwell suddenly felt frozen in place; whether it was by divine miracle or sheer terror, he couldn’t be sure. 

Aziraphale went back through the door, returning to the party inside. 

_Oh, yeh’ve done it now, Shadwell, old boy,_ the man thought glumly. _Poor Lt. Pepper - hee’l ne’er get to retire now._


End file.
